


Adequate Preparation

by youcouldmakealife



Series: Follow the North Star [38]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-13
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2019-02-01 16:05:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12708324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: And then there’s Harry, who’s cracking jokes about Roman fucking him, which — Roman’s still kind of in shock about that specifically, and especially thatConniewas the one suggesting it, but he’s not saying shit to derail the idea. Cracking jokes, but underneath it is a crack itself, something Harry’s trying to plaster over with those jokes, trying to hide. Roman may recognize insecurity best in Connie, lately, but Harry isn’t exactly lacking in it, he’s just a lot more likely to bluff that he isn’t, that’s absurd, and also fuck you for accusing him of that.





	Adequate Preparation

Roman’s still not entirely sure he’s not dreaming. Obviously this isn’t where he thought he’d end up when he woke up this morning — generally you don’t start the day thinking you’re going to be fundamentally kidnapped by your own former rookies and your most annoying friend. And that’s not even starting to get into everything that’s happened since.

At this point it’s hit surreal. Surreal that he’s currently in a situation that only ever occurred to him in an incredibly guilty jerk off session, with his every nerve gone hypernova, dick leaking in his underwear. Surreal that his mouth is raw from Connie’s lips, Harry’s teeth — of course the guy bites. That he tasted Connie in Harry’s mouth. He still imagines he can taste him, echoes of bitter salt. 

And then there’s Harry, who’s cracking jokes about Roman fucking him, which — Roman’s still kind of in shock about that specifically, and especially that _Connie_ was the one suggesting it, but he’s not saying shit to derail the idea. Cracking jokes, but underneath it is a crack itself, something Harry’s trying to plaster over with those jokes, trying to hide. Roman may recognize insecurity best in Connie, lately, but Harry isn’t exactly lacking in it, he’s just a lot more likely to bluff that he isn’t, that’s absurd, and also fuck you for accusing him of that.

Roman reaches out, puts a hand just over his elbow, and Harry flinches. It’s something Roman might not have noticed if he wasn’t paying attention, but he is, and it’s a glaring red flag.

“If you don’t want to,” Roman says, pitched low, probably too quiet for Connie to hear. He feels bad about that, doesn’t want to exclude him, but he also doesn’t want Harry doing anything just because Connie suggested it, because it’s becoming increasingly obvious that if Connie suggested jumping off a bridge might be a fun couple’s activity, Harry would find the tallest bridge in a hundred mile radius. And Roman saw how Harry was that time they hit up the Empire State Building, muttering about how he, a native New Yorker, doesn’t believe in tourist shit, then, when he couldn’t get out of it, looking faintly green, his back against the wall at all times. The guy does _not_ like heights.

“I do,” Harry says.

“Seriously,” Roman says. “I don’t want to do this if—”

“I just,” Harry says, then quiets, looking uncharacteristically shy. “I just haven’t. Before.”

“Me either,” Roman says. Harry looks skeptical then, which is _much_ more characteristic, and sort of a relief. “Seriously. Not with a guy.”

“You guys really don’t—” Connie says.

“I want to,” Harry says. “Fuck knows I need practice if I’m ever going to take your monster dick.”

Shy is a lot more characteristic on Connie than Harry, as is the scarlet he goes. Though Harry’s pretty red himself right now, that hectic color on his cheeks that Roman’s noticed after games, crawling down his chest, a blotchy red Roman wants to taste, hot flush under his tongue. 

“You sure?” Roman asks.

“Ugh, I’m not going to keep pumping your ego,” Harry says, rolling his eyes. 

“Harry,” Roman says.

Harry sighs. “I want to, okay?” he says, a little more serious. “I want you to fuck me.”

Roman swallows.

“Good enough?” Harry asks. “Or do I have to beg or something?”

Roman’s — 

Hold that thought.

He needs to focus. He is not going to be able to focus if —

Harry’s smirking a bit, like maybe some of Roman’s thoughts have made it to his face. “Huh,” he says smugly.

Roman is not thinking about it, and he is not thinking about how Harry’s smirk is equally infuriating and appealing, because he has to focus on logistics. And logistics are a problem, because Roman’s been over most of this room today, looking for supplies and ways to escape, and there were items noticeably lacking.

“Unless we’ve got lube and condoms this isn’t gonna happen,” Roman points out. And he’d be — disappointed might be too mild a word, because now that Connie’s put the idea in his head and Harry’s…added some flourishes…it’s hard to think of anything else, but disappointed or not, there’s no way this is happening without them.

“Well, fuck,” Harry says. “Maybe Kjeldsen provided some? Fuck knows he provided everything else.”

“I’ll look,” Roman says. The searching does a bit to distract him from the fact that he really, _really_ needs to get off right now, though Connie and Harry derail that with a murmured conversation that turns into a kind of quiet, half lazy making out that looks comfortable, routine. Roman swallows, adjusting himself and going to look in the bathroom to avoid the urge to just get on the bed and see if they can make some space for him. 

He doesn’t know if Victor wasn’t holding out enough hope or if it didn’t occur to him somehow or if he’s a little squeamish, but Roman looks everywhere he can think of, and lube and condoms are nowhere to be found. Typical. Guy provides enough vodka for some very bad decisions and doesn’t even bother to follow that thought to its logical end.

Or maybe he did, just to the other extreme.

“We have…bandages?” Roman says, coming out of the bathroom with a first-aid kit he hadn’t noticed sitting by the sink. “Ice packs, antiseptic…”

“Victor terrifies me,” Harry says. “Straight up. You sure there’s nothing?”

“Pretty sure,” Roman says. “And it’s not like we can knock on the wall and ask Fitzy if he has some.”

He probably would too. Roman’s not doubting Fitzy’s devotion to Brouwer or anything, it’s just that Liam Fitzgerald is absolutely the kind of guy who’d pack lube and condoms to help a bro out the way Roman packs a couple extra toothbrushes because they have literally never gone on a road trip without at least one guy forgetting his. This roadie it was Val, and not for the first time. Roman keeps a soft bristle one just for him. Sweet Child is sensitive.

Harry lets out an exasperated breath. “Wonderful,” he says.

“I mean,” Roman says. “It isn’t actually a hardship to—”

“There’s lube and condoms in my bag,” Connie says very reluctantly.

“—do something else,” Roman says, then, his brain catching up, “What?”

“Evan Connelly,” Harry says, sounding completely delighted. “Did you have _plans_ for this trip?”

“No!” Connie says. “I just—” 

He mumbles something so low Roman can’t catch anything but the word ‘prepared’. Because of course he takes the Boy Scout approach. 

“You are precious,” Harry says, and Roman must be the only one catching how fond Harry sounds, downright smitten — and who could blame him — because Connie ducks his head like he always does when he’s getting teased. Doesn’t see the way Harry’s looking at him.

Roman looks away then, gets up, going straight for Connie’s bag, the battered blue one he’s had since the start of his rookie year.

“On the inside,” Connie says as he unzips it. “Left pocket.”

It’s in fact inside a tiny bag inside a small toiletry bag inside the pocket, Connie paranoid, or maybe understandingly cautious, given that they’ve basically been kidnapped and held against their will. Someone snooping through Connie’s stuff seems kind of minor in comparison, and god forbid Val went looking for a toothbrush. In it are two types of condoms, a small bottle of one brand of lube, packets of two others. He really is a Boy Scout.

“Got the variety pack?” Roman asks, gathering them.

“I mean, people have preferences, right?” Connie says, like he doesn’t. Or, Roman guesses, more like he doesn’t know which are his yet.  
“That and you probably need Magnums,” Harry says, grinning unrepentantly when Connie smacks his arm lightly.

“Quit teasing Connie about his huge dick,” Roman says, unable to bite back a grin of his own when Connie covers his face. 

“There there,” Harry says, patting Connie’s shoulder, a little mocking. “I know it’s hard to be proportionate. Poor giant Evan.”

“I hate both of you,” Connie mumbles.

“You guys gotta make room for me,” Roman says, and Connie, still hiding his face, scoots to the edge of the bed, Harry grabbing at his arm the only reason he doesn’t fall right off.

It’s hard to get arranged comfortably. Partly because it’s a double, and combined they’re over six hundred pounds, none of them exactly diminutive. Even Harry’s a couple inches over average height, though it’s difficult to remember that when the only person shorter than him in the locker room is Fitzy. But some of the problem isn’t positioning at all, or, more accurately, not an issue of _space_ , because Roman thinks positioning’s exactly the problem.

Harry looks self-conscious. Roman can see why, with him and Connie on either side of him, practically hovering. Two sets of eyes on him, two bodies hemming him in. Roman doesn’t know what he imagined his first time getting fucked would be like, or if he’d imagined it at all, but he’s pretty sure it wasn’t like this, and he can’t blame him at all for sudden performance anxiety. 

Connie doesn’t look exactly comfortable either, his eyes darting between Harry and the wall, the ceiling, like he’s not sure if he should look at Harry or not. Lip between his teeth, like maybe he’s also picked up on Harry’s nervousness, absorbed it, or maybe just that he has some of his own. He’s on the edge of the bed again, almost touching Harry but not quite, which takes effort, as tight as they have to cram onto it. 

He’s holding himself separate again, looking more like a spectator than participant, which might be the issue. Connie’s never really struck Roman as the voyeuristic type. Though Roman didn’t think he was either, but watching Harry’s mouth tight around Connie had him re-examining that. But then, he wasn’t just watching, had Connie sighing into his mouth, had a purpose, keeping him quiet, though he may have fucked that one up a little when he found out how loud Connie got with his nipple between Roman’s teeth. He was watching, yeah, when he wasn’t entirely focused on Connie, but he was involved.

Roman thinks that might be the answer. The angle probably won’t work the whole time, but it doesn’t matter as much, prep-wise, and they’re both looking enough on edge he doesn’t think it’s going to happen otherwise. 

“Hey, Con?” Roman says. “You mind scooting up against the headboard? Middle of the bed?”

“Okay,” Connie says, frowning a little but doing it immediately.

“Harry, want to lean on him?” Roman adds.

Harry frowns too, opens his mouth, like he has the instinctive urge to argue, but he does it, and they both seem to settle almost immediately, Harry relaxing against Connie’s chest enough to let Connie take his weight, Connie tilting his head down to press a kiss to Harry’s curls. They seem so comfortable with each other, effortlessly so, and it stings, a little, but most of Roman’s relieved that they’re comfortable enough to be that way in front of him, that they’re letting him be a part of it.

“Comfy?” Roman asks, and Connie shoots a small, grateful smile at him.

“I’d be comfier without clothes,” Harry complains, because he’s the least subtle person Roman has ever met. He’s not exactly _wearing_ many, and accommodatingly shifts his hips up when Roman hooks his fingers in the waistband of his underwear to divest him of the remainder. Roman can see how far the flush goes now, not just his blotchy cheeks, the uneven patterning down his chest, but everywhere, spots of color marking his skin all the way down to where the red borders purple and looks painful, cock so hard it slaps against his stomach when it’s free of his underwear, leaving a pearly mark against his skin. 

Roman wraps a hand around Harry’s cock after he throws the underwear over the edge of the bed, hot under his fingers, and Harry hisses like it hurts.

“Don’t,” Harry says through his teeth. “I swear to fuck I’m going to go off in like a second if you do.”

“Might be easier if you do,” Roman says, but pulls his hand back.

Harry shakes his head. “Get too sensitive,” he says.

Roman bites back the ten jokes on immediately the tip of his tongue. It isn’t easy, but he does it.

“You know what you’re doing?” Harry asks. “Because if you don’t, I’m totally fine doing it myself. Probably do a better job.”

Roman’s not going to lie, the thought of Harry fingering himself is a pretty appealing one, but he’s a little worried Harry will rush it. “You’re more than welcome to if you’re that impatient about it,” he says, bland as possible, and Harry, predictably, rolls his eyes and scoffs, then doesn’t push it, because god forbid he admit he’s _impatient_ for Roman to fuck him. Can’t pump Roman’s ego any more.

He’s barely slicked his fingers when Harry starts up again, foot knocking against Roman’s hip. “Could you take any longer?” he complains.

“Is that a rhetorical question, or do you want the answer in the form of me slowing down even more?” Roman asks.

“Ugh,” Harry says, and is quiet for less than ten seconds, though, considering the noise he makes is a fast exhalation when Roman starts nudging the tip of his middle finger into him, followed by a quick, “Keep going,” Roman isn’t inclined to complain about it.

He doesn’t stop running his mouth once after that, which Roman can’t say he’s surprised by. Honestly, he probably would have been freaked out if Harry had been quiet, and there’s no question of him doing anything Harry doesn’t want, except go faster, which is Harry’s every second sentence, and is also not going to happen no matter how much he complains, because Roman may not have done this with a guy, but he has done this, and Harry’s too tight right now for a second finger, let alone Roman’s dick.

Harry kicks Roman’s shoulder, not hard enough to hurt, more like he’s spurring on a fucking horse. 

“You’re a vicious little shit,” Roman says, and is resigned to find it comes out almost admiring.

“And you’re slow,” Harry complains.

“I’m making sure you’re actually ready,” Roman says. “I’m not going to hurry up just because you tell me to.”

“I know my own fucking limits, Nov—Roman,” Harry says.

“Humor me,” Roman says. “Because it’s at my pace or we’re not doing this.”

“He’s fucking bossy,” Harry mutters, presumably to Connie.

Connie’s too nice to call Harry fucking Chalmers out on accusing someone else of that, though he does laugh, soft, eyes crinkling in the corners when he meets Roman’s longsuffering gaze.

“He’s looking out for you,” Connie murmurs to Harry. “Let him.”

Roman doesn’t know if Harry so much _lets_ him as much as just gives up because he knows he’s outnumbered — those fuckers, he’s probably thinking, looking out for my welfare, what jerks — but the backseat driving cuts down a bit. He still loudly informs Roman when he’s ready, but it’s closer to the point where he actually seems like he is. Roman takes him at his word for it, knowing if he doesn’t Harry’s going to start up again, and by the time he’s up to three fingers Harry’s breath has gone uneven, one hand curled around Connie’s neck, the other flexing on his own thigh. His thighs are flushed now too, a flush that looks almost like beard burn, though Roman hasn’t pressed his cheek to them, and Connie’s barely got stubble. They tremble when Roman curves his free hand over one, skin hot and soft under his fingers.

“You blush everywhere,” Roman says.

“I’m not _blushing_ ,” Harry says, though when Roman looks up, he is. There’s something different about the flush he’s had and the one on his cheeks now, hectic, the way he won’t look at Roman.

“You ready?” Roman asks.

“I was ready seventeen hours ago, could you be any more slow?” Harry says, meeting his eye again.

Roman doesn’t say anything, just turns his head to press a kiss to the side of Harry’s knee. 

When he looks up Harry looks as shy as he did when he was telling Roman he’d never done this. Roman’s stomach twists at that, but in a good way, almost. The expression doesn’t look quite right on Harry’s face, but somehow it still suits him. 

“Ready,” Harry says, very serious, and Roman thinks Harry’s answering more than what he asked.

“Glad to hear it,” Roman says, kissing him again, this time against the inside of his thigh, resists the urge to rub his cheek against it, maybe leave a mark that will last after the arousal and the endorphins have faded. He nearly gets a knee to the neck for his trouble.

“Ticklish,” Harry complains.

“Sorry,” Roman says, and pulls his fingers out slowly, apologizing again when Harry makes another complaining noise, moves up his body to kiss his red mouth. Harry doesn’t complain about that at all. Or maybe he does, but it’s caught between their mouths, inaudible, and he he complains it comes out as nothing more than a sigh.

Harry pulls back after a minute. “Get on with it,” he says, and punctuates it by biting Roman’s bottom lip, because of course he does.

“So romantic,” Roman says, and steals another kiss before Harry can retort.


End file.
